Nothing Ventured(20)
William tried to concentrate on Hals, but decided he would have to come back the following Thursday, when he was sure Dr. Knox wouldn’t have quite the same distracting effect on him. He continued to follow Beth until she stopped in front of a large empty gilded frame, with the legend REMBRANDT, 1606–1669 painted on a small plaque below it.
“This,” she said reverently, “is where Rembrandt’s masterpiece The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild once hung, before it was stolen from the gallery seven years ago. Sadly, it has never been recovered.”
“Did the gallery offer a reward for its return?” asked a voice that sounded as if it hailed from Boston.
“No. Unfortunately it had never crossed Mrs. van Haasen’s mind that anyone would steal one of her masterpieces, possibly because she only paid six thousand dollars for the picture at the time.”
“How much would it be worth today?” asked a younger voice.
“The painting is priceless,” said Beth, “and irreplaceable. The more romantic among us believe it’s still out there somewhere, and that The Syndics will one day return to their rightful home.”
A smattering of applause followed this statement before Beth continued. “Rembrandt was an ambitious man, and at one time the most sought-after artist of the Dutch Golden Age. Sadly, he lived beyond his means and ended up having to auction off most of his possessions, including several major canvases, in order to clear his debts. He only just avoided bankruptcy and ending his days in prison. After his death in 1669 he was buried in a pauper’s grave, and his work fell out of fashion for over a century. But Mrs. van Haasen was in no doubt about his genius, and did much to revive his reputation as the greatest of the Dutch masters. Art connoisseurs would travel from all over the world to view The Syndics, which is considered to be one of his greatest works, and Mrs. van Haasen never made a secret of the fact that it was her favorite painting in the collection.”
Beth and her little troupe moved on to the next picture, and she continued to answer all their questions well beyond the appointed hour. She finally came to an end with Jan Steen’s The Marriage at Cana, describing him as “the storyteller of artists.” “Are there any more questions?” she asked.
William decided not to ask his question until the rest of the group had departed. “What a fantastic talk,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Beth. “Did you have a question?”
“Yes. Are you free for dinner?”
She didn’t respond immediately, but eventually managed, “I’m afraid not. I already have a date.”
William smiled. “Well, it’s been a memorable evening. Thank you, Beth.”
As he turned to leave he heard a voice behind him say, “But I am free tomorrow night.”
* * *
When William arrived at the office the following morning, he found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the top of his case files.
URGENT—Call Liz, 01 735 3000.
“What’s this about?” he asked Jackie.
“All I know is that the Hawk said it was urgent. You’re to record exactly what Liz has to say and send him a written report.”
“Will do,” said William as he dialed the number. A moment later a woman’s voice came on the line.
“How can I help you?”
“This is Detective Constable Warwick calling from Scotland Yard. I’m returning Liz’s call.”
“Do you know Liz’s surname, or which department she works in?”
“No, just that it’s urgent I speak to her. She’s expecting my call.”
“This is the Buckingham Palace switchboard, sir. We only have one Liz, and I don’t think she’s available at the moment.”
William turned bright red. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I must have got the wrong number.” The moment he put the phone down, Jackie and DCI Lamont burst out laughing.
“I’m sure she’ll call back,” said Jackie.
“And by the way,” said Lamont, “the Hawk’s had a call from the American ambassador thanking us for returning the moon dust. Well done, laddie, now perhaps it’s time for you to sort out Winston Churchill.”
William opened the file marked CHURCHILL and tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t put the previous evening out of his mind. He couldn’t recall the last time a young woman had so preoccupied his thoughts. Tonight he would definitely leave the office before seven, even if the light was still shining under the commander’s door.
He gathered his thoughts as he read about an ingenious scheme a petty forger had come up with to supplement his income. By the time he’d reached the last page, William realized he was going to have to visit a number of bookshops in the West End if he hoped to catch the thief red-handed. He warned DCI Lamont, who was preoccupied with the hunt for an international jewel thief, that he was about to do some good old-fashioned leather-bashing and might not be back by close of play.
William decided to start at Hatchards on Piccadilly, where the manager—he checked the name again—Peter Giddy, had made the original complaint.
He left Scotland Yard, and headed for the Mall—as he passed Buckingham Palace he couldn’t help feeling chastened at his attempt to call Liz—then on up St. James’s to Piccadilly, where he passed through a doorway under which three royal warrants were proudly displayed. William asked a woman on the front counter if he could see Mr. Giddy.